


Uninhibited

by 221b_hound



Series: Unkissed [15]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Big Brother Mycroft, Holmes Brothers, M/M, Massage, Naked Cuddling, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Pet Names, Relationship Negotiation, Sherlock has a low libido, it goes wrong, the 'if you hurt my brother' speech
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2018-01-12 02:52:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1181047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John have been apart for the first time since Sherlock returned from the dead. Neither of them has had a good day. John's gets worse when Mycroft comes to Baker Street in Sherlock's absence to warn John Watson against disappointing his brother by expecting things to change. Mycroft has misjudged things rather badly.  But finally he sods off and leaves John and Sherlock to reconnect, to give and receive comfort, and show each other that they are, indeed, perfectly matched.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Uninhibited

**Author's Note:**

> Again with the schmoop and the pet names, though with a little more explanation about why they do it.

John dragged himself up the stairs to the flat and hoped with every weary protest of his aching body that Sherlock was back from the Isle of Wight. Sherlock had been complaining over Skype just last night how tedious it all was. Barely a _two,_ even if that was better than the minus three he’d expected. And no John to make the tedium even a little bit bearable.

Sherlock had planned to come back at the earliest opportunity, but at the end of the call, the local DI had banged on Sherlock’s door and yelled something about the tie having shown up in a pond. Sherlock’s eyes had lit up, he’d grinned and said “Oh, _that’s_ more like it!” and taken off in a whirl of curls and coat.

John wasn’t happy about that sudden flurry of activity. He wasn’t happy about not _being_ there for it. Between his mostly healed arm and the need to actually show up to the paying job for the first time since he’d bruised and fractured the damn thing, he had decided to stay in London for this one.

It was supposed to only be a short job; a favour for Mrs Hudson. They did owe her a rather large favour to escape her just wrath over Sherlock tossing the microwave out of the window and onto her bins.

(Long story. Well, short one really. Microwave blew up. Sherlock too damned lazy to cart the dead appliance downstairs when gravity could do all of the work, and John with his jiggered arm not able to do it himself. Microwave turfed out the window by one lazy bastard of a consulting detective. Bin lids noisily smashed to buggery. Mrs Hudson woken by the godawful noise at two in the morning with palpitations. John, too, come to that, but Sherlock at least made it up to John by clambering into bed with him, sitting on the back of John’s legs and kissing him slowly, up and down his spine, for the twenty minutes it took for John to forgive him. No such remedy available for ropable, not-your-housekeeper landladies.)

So, in penance, Sherlock had gone to the Isle of Wight to look into this ridiculous situation of Mrs Hudson’s nephew and the vanished fiancé, some bloke from New York. Probably just cold feet, Sherlock thought. Cold feet or the realisation that, good god, he was supposed to live after the marriage on the _Isle of Wight_. Anyone would do a bunk, said Sherlock. He’d made John laugh, and promised to call nightly.

And now there was something about an unexpected tie in a pond, and Sherlock was off doing god knew what. On his own. Without backup. On the _Isle of Fucking Wight._

It was the first time since John had moved back to Baker Street that they had not slept under the same roof.

It was the first time since Manchester that they had not spent at least part of the night in the same bed.

John Watson was at least three hundred kinds of unhappy right now, and at least a dozen of them related to the horrible day he’d just had and how very much he ached all over.

The other 280-odd kinds of unhappy were all about Sherlock being away and unprotected, even if it was only a _two_. Or a seven. Things had a way of escalating quickly in their lives. It nagged at him.

But Sherlock had texted mid-morning.

_Case closed. Even Lestrade could_   
_have solved it. And please, if you have_   
_a secret past, please tell me all_   
_before it bites us on the arse. – SH_

John had of course texted back – in between treating a vomiting drunk with a Mystery Cut on his face and a man who steadfastly stuck to his story that he’d simply been scratching his arse with his housekey when it got stuck in there, and the salad tongs were merely the consequence of trying to remove the key. (It was on days like this that John generally felt Sherlock had a point about the great mass of stupidity beyond their front doors.)

_Nothing to tell. Can’t keep a secret_   
_from you for more than ten_   
_minutes, blossom. Home_   
_soon? – JW_

Ridiculous, how he’d got into the habit of signing his text messages just as Sherlock did. Still, given the number of times Sherlock failed to actually use his own phone to send texts, it wasn’t a bad habit to be in.

_Ten minutes? Optimistic. And_   
_**blossom**? Home as soon as I can_   
_escape this cesspit of iniquity_   
_and tedium. – SH_

And two minutes later:

_For the record John, we will_   
_be wed quietly at a registry_   
_office. I refuse to be part of_   
_a farce of this nature or_   
_magnitude. – SH_

And then:

_How can this ritual be_   
_both diabolical and tedious?_   
_Yet, it manages to be both. – SH_

John’s reply?

_Fine.  We’ll elope even if Mrs H_   
_threatens with a poker. I’m_   
_not afraid of her kaffeeklatsch._   
_How about Sunbeam? – JW_

John’s last two texts from Sherlock, two hours ago, had been:

_Acceptable. – SH_

And:

_Blossom can stay. – SH_

Nothing since then.

John’s fingers fumbled with the keys of the upstairs flat, but the door was open. _Oh, thank god._

“Pop the kettle on, would you blossom?” he called out, the grin audible in his voice, “I’ve had a bugger of a day and I could murder a cup of tea.”

No sign of Sherlock in the living room, though he may have been in the bedroom, unpacking. John let his weary feet guide him to his chair, and he sank into it. He closed his eyes and breathed in the soothing air of home.

A cup and saucer rattled slightly as they were placed on the arm of his chair.

“Thanks, honeybumble,” he murmured, steadying the crockery with his sore arm and opening his eyes as he beamed up into…

…Mycroft Holmes’s irritatingly indulgent and urbane half smile.

John heaved a sigh and tried politely to not look as disappointed as he felt. He sipped his tea. There was at least that. Mycroft Holmes made a bloody good cuppa.

“He’s not due home for another… forty minutes,” said Mycroft, seating himself in Sherlock’s chair, ensuring his trouser crease was flawless. His umbrella was propped beside the chair – John should really have noticed it – and he regarded John with his usual annoying combination of condescension and polite inquiry.

John wasn’t any more interested in that game now than he’d been the first time he’d met Mycroft in that underground car park. He just sipped his tea.

“Cheers,” he said, by way of thanks, and sipped some more.

“It’s curious,” Mycroft finally observed, “He never much cared for pet names when he was a child.”

“That,” said John pointedly, “Was because you used to call him things like Mr Thickwhistle and Junior Dimstock. Because you thought he was _stupid_.”

“Of course, by comparison, he is. Did he tell you about the one he coined himself? _Shock_?” Mycroft said the name with a certain relish and a faint hint of a lisp.

“As a matter of fact he did,” replied John, unamused, “People always think it’s cute when little kids can’t pronounce their own names. _Poftie_.”

Mycroft’s mouth pursed sharply. “He told you about that.”

But John only shrugged. “Harry used to call me Jabba.” At Mycroft’s blank look he expanded on it. “The Hutt?” Mycroft continued to be unenlightened. “Star Wars? No? Oh well. She reckoned I was like a little fat grub and apparently my first attempts at my own name were a bit… adenoidal. So it stuck for a long while.” John shrugged. “Is there a cloak-and-dagger reason you’re sneaking into our flat to see me while Sherlock is away? Or is this just what passes as a social call for you?”

“Oh, it’s purely social, Doctor Watson. I’m here to congratulate you on your upcoming nuptials, and to offer a word of advice.”

John’s left eyebrow lifted. Hardened men, armed with machine guns and small bombs, had been known to quail at that eyebrow.

“How do you know we haven’t got hitched already?” he asked coolly.

“Seriously, Doctor Watson? You are required by law to publish the banns.”

“It’s possible to waive the month’s notice if you have just cause and know the right people,” said John reasonably, “And there are a few officials in useful places who owe Sherlock a favour. Have you checked the registers for yesterday yet? There’s also the trip we took to Calais last month.”

Mycroft shook his head dissapprovingly. “Elopement _would_ be his style...”

“And it would save us having to invite family.” John smiled blandly. Mycroft scowled at him then cleared the expression from his face, settling back into faintly amused/neutral mode.

“No,” he said, “Not yet. The texts you exchanged this morning make that quite clear.”

“And there you go, admitting you’re prying again.”

“Monitoring my brother’s communications, nothing more.”

John finished his tea and leaned over to put cup and saucer on the side table. “Out with it, then. What’s this about?”

“Ah, your admirable penchant for cutting to the chase.”

“Ah, your irritating penchant for avoiding it.”

Mycroft picked at the perfect crease of his trousers, checked the state of the polish on his left shoe, before looking up at John again. “Sherlock has particular… approaches, shall we say, to personal relations.”

John blinked at Mycroft. Hardened men had been known to quail at that blink as well. The one that means _I can already see where this is going and I’m not fucking amused_.

Mycroft managed a delicate kind of cough. “His approach is not at all _conventional_ ,” he continued, “And you should be aware that _that_ won’t change, the upshot of which is that your own needs may be left unaddressed.” Mycroft’s heavy lidded gaze opened wider to something steely. “I would hate for you to disappoint him, Doctor Watson.”

“This is none of your business,” replied John through gritted teeth.

“My brother’s wellbeing is every bit my business, Doctor, and I know the kind of man you are. You may not be quite conventional, but you are not as Bohemian as you pretend.”

Doctor Watson was mightily annoyed, and the slow way he blinked would have warned certain hardened men that _annoyed_ was rapidly moving into _pissed right off_ territory.  His jaw and mouth moved in other tell-tale signs that he was, in fact, _absolutely fucking furious_. But he was a man of discipline, so for a little while he just sat there and glared at Mycroft, his blue eyes fierce and hard.

Mycroft Holmes began to suspect he had made a serious miscalculation.

“Because I assume you're here out of care for him, Mycroft, I am going to not break anything of yours,” said John in a very reasonable voice, “Like your umbrella. Or your nose.”

Mycroft blinked. And not in a slow, frightening way. Just… in a startled way. 

The door to the flat crashed open in what was either perfectly brilliant or perfectly terrible timing, and both John and Mycroft looked up to see Sherlock’s frame filling the door. Sherlock was glaring at Mycroft.

“For god’s sake, Mycroft,” he snapped impatiently, as though he’d been there for the whole conversation, which he certainly hadn’t, “This isn’t _Victor_.”

And John quietly filed away that little bit of information against future need. He had a name now. _Victor_. By the sound of it, the name that should top the list of people he might give a _talking to_ , if the opportunity ever presented itself. _Oh fuck, yes, Victor Whoever-You-Are. You tosser._

Mycroft made a show of rising and primly adjusting his suit jacket. “And yet, you are still yourself.”

Sherlock bristled. John scowled at Mycroft and rose to stand at Sherlock’s side. “In his entirely fucked up way, sweetheart, your brother thinks he’s looking out for you.”

Sherlock gave John an impatient glare then shifted a more scathing one onto his brother.

“Come, Sherlock,” said Mycroft, deciding to stick to his theme, “We know that you have limited interests in areas which the doctor would certainly see as necessary to a healthy long term relationship.”

That was very much the wrong decision, Mycroft realised, as John Watson slowly turned his head towards him, moving somehow like a _predator_ , and took three steps towards him. Mycroft could also see what John could not – Sherlock Holmes looking at John Watson like the little doctor was made of swash and buckle.

“Oh _please_ , Mycroft Holmes,” snarled John, “ _Do_ tell me everything you know about what is required for a healthy long term relationship. Speak slowly, if you don’t mind, so that I may take notes to read again later. I always like to have a good laugh before bed.”

Mycroft, caught on the back foot, finally saw past his own narrow expectations. His eyebrows rose. “Oh. Oh, I see.”

“Do you?” No upward inflexion there. No indeed. That was a flat demand that he bloody _better_ see.

And Mycroft did. He read a whole speech in those eloquent eyebrows, those fierce blue eyes, and that slash of an angry mouth. There were whole soliloquies in the line of the doctor’s shoulders and the way his feet were braced and his hands curled at his side.

And behind him, oh my, there were _volumes_ of poetry in the way his little brother gazed at John Watson: triumphal odes and exquisite sonnets and haikus of perfect metaphor. Triolets and rondeaus and tyburns and epigrams were there in that look, the tilt of Sherlock’s head and that of his mouth, and the curl of his fingers, the crinkles around his eyes and the marginal sway of his spine as his brother leaned ever-so-slightly towards that small, great man.

“I perceive,” said Mycroft gently, “That I have been very much mistaken.”

“You have,” said John steadily.

“My most sincere apologies.”

“Accepted,” replied John, “Now fuck off before I change my mind about the umbrella.” _Or your nose_ was implied.

Mycroft attempted to gain back just a little ground. “My, you _have_ had a bad day, Doctor Watson.”

“Yes, I fucking have,” John agreed, “So sod off and let me get on with my evening.”

“I shall leave you and…” Mycroft looked like he was about to say something like _honeybumble_ or _blossom_ , but thought better of it, “Sherlock to enjoy your reunion.”

“Less talk, Mycroft,” suggested John, “More sodding off.”

Mycroft at last took the hint, hooked his umbrella over his arm, nodded a farewell and sodded off.

All of John’s belligerent demeanour fell from him, leaving him slumped and exhausted. He turned to Sherlock with a tired smile.

“I suppose I should have expected it before now, the whole ‘don’t hurt my brother’ speech.”

“Why would you expect it at all? I certainly didn’t. Insufferable, interfering prat.”

“I suppose it’s sort of nice that he was trying to look out for you.”

“You still wanted to break his umbrella, though.”

John laughed sheepishly. “Yeah.”

“And now you have Victor’s name and you want to break him, too.”

“If the chance comes, I’ll certainly consider it,” John admitted, “But I have other plans right now, if they’re okay with you.”

Sherlock scrutinised John closely, then stepped closer to press a kiss to John’s forehead. “You’re much too tired.”

“I’m not. Not for that. I was really looking forward to bathing you, if you’re in the mood.”

“This is because of Victor…”

“No. Maybe.” John wiped his hand over his forehead then looked up at Sherlock again, “I mean, yes, thinking about pricks like Victor makes me want to take care of you, but it's because I missed you, and I had a lousy day, and I was looking forward all day to doing it, if you wanted to. I find it soothing too, you know. I _like_ bathing you. If you're in the mood, I’d really like that.”

Sherlock brushed the tip of his nose over John’s, then placed a soft kiss on his mouth. “It has been a tedious and annoying day, and I missed you too. So yes, please, John. That would be wonderful.”

There were elements of ritual to this. They stripped in the bedroom and John got the shower started while Sherlock brushed his teeth. Then Sherlock stepped under the hot water while John brushed his teeth and arranged the numerous towels and washers for the occasion. Then John joined Sherlock under the warm spray.

John wasn’t just being polite when he said how much he loved bathing Sherlock, how soothing he found it. It was still a wonder to him that he had this, that he could do this.

Using Sherlock’s expensive body wash, John built mounds of foam in his hands. While Sherlock leaned his arms and forehead against the tiles, John ran his soapy hands over Sherlock’s neck and shoulders, kneading the muscles gently, running his fingers over bumps and hollows, the lines of scars old and new. _This line from a fall from a tree fifteen years ago; that one caused by a blade from a fight in Istanbul, fourteen months ago._

John’s strong fingers and palms ran firmly over trapezius and scapula, the rhomboids minor and major, down spine and sacrum.

 _To think this man had so rarely had gentle hands laid on him. Or  rather, no, don't think of that._  Because the thought made John clench his jaw. So instead he unclenched, teeth and fingers, and stroked that beloved skin. So warm and textured. So treasured.

So responsive, too. The tiny shifts in Sherlock’s posture, a softening of his stance as he relaxed, a light flexing of his spine as he arched into the touch, like a cat. The little sigh of pleasure. All so small, and so profound as well.

John used the body wash to create more suds, to wash Sherlock’s gluteal muscles, then down to his thighs – more scars, some recent that hurt John to see: the burn, the dent from the screwdriver attack. But he couldn’t take those away, so instead John gave Sherlock the gentle wash, the soft and caring touch he should have had then. He gave it _now_ , and with it the promise of _always_.

He washed the back of Sherlock’s knees, his calves, his Achilles tendons. (Feet were for later: nobody wanted to slip in the shower with soapy feet).

John chased soapy hands next with a clean flannel:  into the cleft of Sherlock’s buttocks, sacrum to perineum, firm and steady. He was thorough without lingering, sensual certainly, but not deliberately sexual.

That Sherlock trusted him with this, of all things, was something John cherished: to touch Sherlock so intimately without turning it into a sexual demand. John took that privilege seriously, as he did when he encouraged Sherlock to turn with a nudge of his hip, to wash Sherlock’s pubic thatch, his genitals. Intimate but not sexual; no intent to arouse, only to show care.  

John tossed that flannel to the far end of the bath and continued to wash Sherlock, cleansing the fronts of his legs, then his abdomen and belly; rib cage and chest. He washed Sherlock’s arms as Sherlock leaned back into the tiles, head tilted back and eyes closed, his expression one of bliss. John guided Sherlock’s arms to that they were raised above his head, and washed his armpits.

Sherlock sighed contentedly and lowered his arms over John’s shoulder. “Let me,” he murmured. He put his arms around John’s body and pulled him close, and John went with the embrace. He leaned against Sherlock while Sherlock pooled John’s sage and lemon gel in his hand and ran his long, large hands over John’s body.

John nuzzled against Sherlock’s neck and relaxed while Sherlock washed wherever he could reach. It was lovely, this, being held. Some days they did this and John would get erect, so they would just move apart (or sometimes Sherlock would ask John to masturbate while he watched and murmured baritone encouragement in his willing ear). Tonight, John was much too tired for his prick to be that interested. Instead, John hummed and cuddled against Sherlock’s warm, wet body, feeling contented.

His head was still against Sherlock’s shoulder when John felt the warm spray of water on his scalp. John kissed the skin in the hollow above Sherlock’s clavicle, and again, as Sherlock poured a little shampoo into John’s wet hair and massaged it in.

“Eyes closed,” Sherlock murmured, and John obeyed while Sherlock rinsed the suds away. Conditioner next, just a little – John’s hair wasn’t a fraction as tangle-prone as Sherlock’s – and then a rinse for that too. As the water rinsed clear that second time, Sherlock dotted kisses all over John’s temple and cheeks and jaw, until their mouths met and they kissed a long, slow time.

John reached for two clean towels and draped them over the edge of the tub, where they sat while John washed Sherlock’s feet and Sherlock leaned bonelessly against him like a wet noodle.

“I’ll do your hands in bed, honeybee,” John said quietly. He left the tub first, wrapping more clean towels around his hips and shoulders before taking his time to dry Sherlock, patting the skin softly. He took especial care around Sherlock’s face. Patted around forehead and temple, over his closed eyes and either side of his nose. Upper lip and lower. Cheeks and ears and jaw and chin and throat.  And Sherlock, with his eyes closed and head tilted back the whole time, a small and beatific smile curving his lips.

John bent to kiss them. “Come on, sweetpea.”

“Blossom,” murmured Sherlock.

John kissed him again. “My blossom. My sunflower. My sunny sunbeam.” His own mouth was stretched in a smile when he kissed Sherlock again, and Sherlock grinned and opened his eyes a little.

“Fluffbundle,” he accused, then laughed softly, because he would never get tired of the look on John’s face when he said that.

John bumped noses with him. “Honeybumble. Sweetheart. Come on.”

Would Sherlock ever know that while John may not have a mind palace, he had a place where he kept the picture of Sherlock’s expression, so shocked, the first time John had called him sweetheart. Staggered and delighted because, John guessed, it was the first name he’d heard for himself that was not designed to bring him down. Not _Freak_ or _Thickwhistle_ or even the gentle tease of the babyish pronunciation of _Shock_ , but a name that said _you are precious to me_.

With every name that John gave to him, a tiny echo of that first delighted, disbelieving shock of hearing _sweetheart_ was still there. One day, John hoped, that astonishment would fade, and Sherlock would not be so surprised to be so loved. Until then, John would find new names and new ways to remind Sherlock that it was true.

John arranged the pillows so that Sherlock could sit up comfortably in bed. John sat cross-legged in front of him and, with an expensive scentless hand lotion, he gently massaged Sherlock’s hands and fingers. His own arm ached still, but he loved this, too. Caring for those elegant, clever hands, which had the precision of a scientist and the grace of a musician.

Part way through, almost like a dance, Sherlock took the lead and was massaging John’s hands instead. Those steady, sturdy doctor’s hands, capable of the most delicate touch, but a soldier’s hands too. To heal and defend. To protect and to strike, if need be. What a beautiful and glorious set of contrasts, his John.

Finally, they switched positions, John leaning against the bed-head while Sherlock sat between his spread legs, nestled together. Sherlock recounted the story of the Runaway Groom and its successful conclusion, sometimes with expansive gestures and word-and-accent-perfect reports of the conversations and arguments that had taken place. John’s face was pressed into Sherlock’s back at one point while his shoulders shook with laughter at the dreadful mess.

Fortunately, it turned out that the missing groom wasn’t really married to anyone else after all, and had faked his own death so poorly in his distress that it wasn’t hard to track him down and sort it all out. The woman who had put the spanner in the works tried to claim it had been a practical joke, rather than a desperate attempt at entrapment of the man she unrequitedly loved.

And then, like the end of a Shakespeare comedy, all misunderstandings were resolved, love was reaffirmed and the wedding went ahead anyway, while the traditional unpaired loner was left to contemplate the unfairness of things on her way back to New York.

John caught Sherlock’s hand up in his and kissed his knuckles, then turned his hand to kiss his wrist and palm.

“You're not worried are you?” he asked, “That Mycroft's right and I’m just waiting for you to change your mind about sex?”

“Of course not.” 

“Good.”

Sherlock turned in John’s arms so he could look John in the eye. “You are not Victor,” he said, almost sternly. “You are my John, and unlike your name, you are unique.  The only one of your kind.”

John’s face crinkled in a warm smile. “My Consulting Snugglebee. I want to kiss you.”

“You may, Captain Snoggable.” Sherlock’s eyes danced with the silliness of it, and he made note of how that made John’s face light up too. John had a thing for terrible puns.

John laughed, and kept laughing as Sherlock kissed him, until the laughter settled into his bloodstream and into his bones, into his heart and lungs, leaving him free to devote himself to kissing his honeybee to their mutual satisfaction.

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Uninhibited [PODFIC]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7474674) by [Lockedinjohnlock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lockedinjohnlock/pseuds/Lockedinjohnlock)




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